The Dark Forest
by Tanny
Summary: The last ship has set sail to Valinor. Middle Earth is changing from a place of magic and beauty to the domain of mankind. A human girl catches a glimpse of a strange forest dweller and is thrust into a world she never dreamed could exist. UPDATED: Ch. 16
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part I**

Amazement, oh, ye gods, that you have brought me to this place.

I could not but begin to imagine where I might be when my eyes were uncovered -- and I am traipsing into the woods of belief that I was right...

And yet I cannot be. Why, for the sake of all thy presence, would he be here? I ask now, gods, and you shall answer me.

This garden, this forest of delight and beauty and melancholy joy - the grass, lush and darkened by tears, wraps damply around my ankles, rooting me to the ground; the flowered vines with their yellow buds tangle about my shoulders and coil themselves in my hair. From my lips comes forth a white mist -- so fair and so fine that it instantly dissolves into a thousand droplets on my cloak.

It is early morning, is it not? Still he stands there, alone and apart from such a forest, his eyes tracing a path on the wet ground. How is it, gods, that he can stand so quiet and stone-like, and not share this immense binding with nature?

I move my hand slightly and the vines whisk around me more tightly than before. He does not notice, however; he does not stir at the mild sound. It seems to me that the forest is growing; is feeling-- in front of me the black oaks gather, pulling together in a tense, breathless dance. Their branches struggle to block my view, and with my last effort, I push forward.

The vines erupt into burning ropes of thorns and my flesh tears. I heed it not. The flower petals caught in my hair freeze my very blood; I want nothing more than to stop, to turn back; or to nestle in the clinging grass and sleep. And then the oaks step towards me, their canopies swinging ominously. I close my eyes. I am to be trampled.

And then, sunlight. I open my eyes. Nay, not sunlight -- oh, gods! Why have you brought me here -- it is the reflected light of a golden magic that smoothly enrobes his head. Now he has heard me; now he has seen me; and I am faced with the brilliantly blue orbs crowned by that golden glory.

He opens his mouth to speak, and I shut my ears. My despair is greater than ever -- and as he reaches out with one hand, I shudder, and throw myself back into the comfort of those blackened oaks.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part II**

I am sewing. Aye, sewing; embroidering, perhaps, is the term that my sister would use. I am embroidering small, dark flower-buds onto a piece of material that is sitting in my lap.

My sister presented me with the fabric this morning. "To become a lady," she told me, "You must learn this art." Of course, the material is very rough – very coarse – for my calloused, clumsy hands would desecrate any velvets or silks.

The four buds that I have already embroidered glare at me from within their crippled threads, as if to question why I have brought them into life. Their petals are bent and twisted, and the supposed smoothness of their colour is patchy and thin. But I cannot help my lack of concentration. Truly, gods, I cannot.

Though she is of age to be a married woman, my sister is still betrothed – engaged, formally – to a man in our township. William de Marinty, a very fine gentleman whom we all know will take care of her. She has not gone before Mother and Father to plead her case – she tells me, with a small smile, that she does not need to plead her case. Certainly she well deserves a man whom she can so easily love. I am glad for her, at any rate. But I do wish that she could explain to me this concept of love.

I have been told so many legends that I would tire myself tremendously trying to relate them all. Legends of those ... forest-dwellers, for I know no other name for them. We see them sometimes, though infrequently. It is only I -

But these legends; they tell of true love, perhaps like that which my sister feels for Lord de Marinty. They relate tales of the great ones who came before us, and who set life upon the earth by the sheer force of their love. I cannot understand this. I love my Mother and my Father, and of course my sisters and brothers, but such a power…? I am rendered helpless to imagine it.

The gods alone know why I ask these questions. They know why my fingers fumble; why my concentration is so poor. They know that I fear the worst.

The worst: that my neighbours and friends speak ill of the forest-dwellers. That I myself wish them ill.

That I have seen one of them.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest: Part III**

At times I wish the town was always this peaceful. The supper bell has rung, and all of the children have been called back to their homes by their mothers. Their fathers, in turn, have already wended their way home, axes or game slung over their shoulders. I watched them come in.

I am not supposed to be out here, sitting on a high rock in the middle of the riverbed. I am supposed to be in the kitchen, with the servants, preparing our evening meal. But these days, I cannot find enough time away from my family. Time that is valuable; used for thinking and contemplating.

I wish so much to speak to my sister! I am so sure that she would know what I should do. But I cannot. She hates the wood-dwellers as much as I do.

It must have been over a week ago. Perhaps more. I was in the Dark Forest, gathering herbs. I do not like gathering herbs, although I like being in the Forest. It was I who offered to go, for Mother felt sick. We gather the herbs and make remedies for the elderly. That has garnered Mother some unfair rumour, which, unfortunately, has made Father even more of a hermit than usual. But she swears by her cures, and I must also do as she says.

I have my own suspicions for Mother's sickness, but I dare not tell anyone. Perhaps Melin knows of it; she has become Mother's confidante in everything. I am simply the arrogant younger sister who condescends to run errands every once and a while.

I had gathered herbs and was contemplating the patch of wolf's bane alongside the path. Children often run off into the forest, and wolf's bane is fatal. I had spoken of it to Mother once before, and she had agreed that it should be uprooted or transplanted to another spot. Then I heard the slightest of rustlings; perhaps even the breeze, except that it transfixed me to the spot.

What rustlings can be beautiful and full of music? What breeze carries a pure, melodic voice? The harmonies that rushed into my mind glowed with a white health that I could not understand. And then, it was gone. I immediately forgot the wolf's bane and stared off into the forest. There was nothing – no one – there except the dark, glowering shadows beneath the canopies and under the brush.

I have been told never to leave the path, unless it is to one of the designated spots that Mother and I have traveled. I disobeyed her order. I ran heedlessly into the forest, looking every which way for some evidence of the faint, minute rustling.

Nothing, and then nothing…and then the flash of gold. So brief that I thought I must have been dreaming, but I was not. I peered around a gnarled black oak and then I froze.

It was his hair that glinted so golden, as he bowed his head and inspected the sleek longbow in his hands. I must admit that I cared nothing for the workmanship. I had eyes for only him. A forest-dweller – yet one so beautiful, so transfixing…I breathed out slowly and took in a deep breath. At that moment he looked up. I fancied that he had seen me; that he would kill me as my mother said all forest-dwellers would; but his eyes – such piercing eyes – looked past me.

I closed my eyes, afraid to look again for fear of being found, and when I opened them, he was gone. Since then my heart has been in turmoil.

I have had dreams of him – I have had dreams of the forest – each night; even in the daytime. Even as I sit here I can recall his features and the stillness that penetrated the forest that day. I am frightened; terribly so. It is thought to be a bad omen – seeing a forest-dweller – and yet I cannot help but wonder if I am in love.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part IV**

I returned home this evening to find that our dinner had already begun. Father was in the midst of one of his fits – he has not been doing well at the shop lately. My father is a carpenter, and a very fine one at that – yet, perhaps he is not skilled enough as to make a successful living at it. I believe that his dislike of the job comes from the instructions that his own father imposed on him when he was a boy. Father told me once – and only once, and only me – that he had wanted to become a musician; a traveling bard. He certainly has a quick tongue to which words swiftly fly when he needs them; but I have never heard him sing. Melin loves to sing, but her powers of retaining melody are scarce. I do not wish to sing. I fear that my loudness would drain all charm of that talent.

I am the loudest child in my family, gods and all be it known. Melin tells me that I should refrain from reciting poetry for fear of inciting the wrath of the dead. I heed her not. The loudness that issues forth from my mouth is perhaps an incarnation of the turmoil that I feel inside. I feel that I am growing – bodily I am growing, for I am all knees and all elbows – yet inside I also feel that I am changing. I shall wake one morning and not know where I am, it sometimes seems. At times I feel like weeping for no reason, and at others laughing with a barely-provoked joy. And then the addition of this new experience – my heart seems to beat more quickly even thinking of him.

It is not uncommon for the girls of our township to marry young. My mother's sister was married when she was only thirteen years of age. But she died nary a year later, in childbirth. I find it both revolting and intriguing that my thoughts have turned to marriage. There is little else for a young woman in this place.

But as to the object of my wants and thoughts…

I wander away from the topic at hand. Mother was furious that I came home so late, although she tried not to show it. If Father even senses another black mood at the table he will sink deeper into his own. But tonight he seemed too far to even notice the glowering looks I was receiving. We had_ brul_ tonight. Not one of my particular favourites. Cabbages and turnips may be the height of season right now, but I still have no liking for them.

I think that perhaps if I continue to mull over things so silently, I will become much quieter. After all, the less one speaks, the less one delights in the sound of one's own voice.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part V **

Tonight I learned that I have a penchant for saying the wrong things at the wrong time. I awoke to a loud shout and immediately leapt out of bed. Father was pacing down in the shop; pacing back and forth and cursing wildly, as though he had lost his mind. Mother had come down to him and was standing wrapped in her shawl at the foot of the staircase. She looked terrified. Even as I reached her, Melin came flying down the stairs behind me, and then two of my brothers.

Father looked up at us all and sneered. His face became like that of a wild beast, and I had the overwhelming urge to flee. But flee I did not. I stood behind Mother and listened while he spoke.

"Fools, the lot of you!" he shouted at us. "You who have been possessed! You have burnished these floors with my own blood; you have painted these walls with your foul scratches, your nightmares – curses befall thee! Curses!" His voice rose to a screaming pitch, and Melin clapped her hands over her ears. I had to listen, however – I could not tear my eyes away from this sight of my silent father, hair and beard tangled and eyes feverishly bright.

"You shall not be free! You will lose this peace!" he screamed, and then, suddenly, he turned about and ran through the shop door. Mother made no move to go after him, but simply stared at the spot where he had stood last. Melin, behind me, began to say something in a very low voice – words that I could not hear, repeated over and over and over again. I did not know what to say. My mother turned to look at me, her eyes wide and staring.

"Get thee gone," she said unseeingly. "Get thee back to bed!" she snapped.

I stared back at her, feeling suddenly angry. 'Why did you take out your temper on me, Mother? He would not be gone if you had not done so! Leave the dinner table for eating."

Almost before I had finished speaking I heard the sharp crack and felt the stinging as she slapped me. Her eyes blazing, she pushed past me and then broke down into tears. Melin's voice grew louder, and then into words of comfort. I did not turn around. I moved forward, over to the worktable, and leaned against it slightly as I caught my breath and tried to ignore the pain that was making my eyes water. Slowly, Melin, aided by my brothers, helped my mother go back to her sleeping room.

Now I am here, curled up beneath the worktable, hugging my knees, and staring at the wooden cross beams underneath the tabletop. I had always played there when I was a child. Now I cry there. Father is gone; Mother is angry – she was weeping. Oh, gods – why did I grow so furious? What was it that took hold of me? I shall cease this sobbing – I shall swallow it down. My nightdress is wet from tears. If only this were a nightmare that might also cease in the morning…


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part VI**

The sawdust is floating, golden, before my eyes. Somehow the sun makes each chip, each flake, seem beautiful. Yet I feel that I am about to sneeze again.

It is not often that one wakes up beneath a table that is much too small a shelter. I must have inhaled quite a deep breath of the dust, for I awoke spluttering and coughing at the wooden dryness in my throat. My eyes feel sore and swollen; I cried myself to sleep last night. My neck is cramped.

There, I have crawled out from beneath that table. The shop door is still open, just as Father left it, and I can hear the bustling of the townsfolk beginning in the street. Watching through the open door, I see several of our neighbours passing, whistling merrily. I am in no mood for such jovialities this morning. I want the reassuring presence of my father and yet I do not; I want to speak to my mother and yet I cannot.

If her sickness is what I believe, this shock will surely not be good for her. I had no reason to say what I did last night. I regret my rash words now.

I believe that I should go look for Father, but I have not the faintest idea of where to start. He might be in the forest, for all I know, although he seems to dislike going there. Unlike my grandfather, Father does not collect his own wood. He lets the butcher's boys bring it to him in huge carts, and then he picks and chooses the pieces that he likes.

Perhaps the tavern? But I cannot see my father going there. He does not drink; at least, he makes an effort to leave the stuff alone. He has told me often that a man who indulges in those fiery liquids makes neither a good husband nor a good father. That, perhaps, is one of the reasons that I cannot understand his behaviour of last night.

Was he mad? Raving in such a manner? I almost expected to see him frothing at the mouth…it frightens me, that scene, for I have never imagined such things to happen to my parents. They are my solid pillars of support, holding me up and guiding me in all that is right and good. I do not know what I shall do if my father does not return home. He must come home soon. I will face the grief of my mother, the wrath of his clients – the disgust of the village people; I will face my own grief.

I shall walk through the town, and try not to dwell on what he said last night. Instead I shall pray to the gods that he is safe.

_Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story! Feedback is always rewarding, and this is no exception._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part VII**

I do not believe that anyone has heard of last night's happenings yet. Our neighbours greeted me normally as I rushed through the streets; they asked me if my mother was well and if my father had begun work on any of Lord de Marinty's new furniture yet. I put on a smile and swallowed my tears as they asked me that. William is adding a new wing on to his old home to celebrate his upcoming marriage to Melin. I shall miss her. I miss Father now.

Why, why would my father leave? Gods, I need the answer to that question! I have been through the village from top to bottom, and there is not a trace of the man who calls himself my father. That leaves only the forest; a place to which I dread going. I do not dread entering the darkness so much as I do leaving it.

I should return home and give Mother word of my whereabouts, but I cannot bear to face her again. I was wrong to speak to her as such, and I realize that, but I do not think that this is the time to make amends. Mother will, by my estimation, already be ending her second stage, and perhaps…it might be best, then? But I cannot; I cannot. I am afraid to speak to her. I should leave a note for Melin. To tell her that both Father and I are safe. Gods, I hope that you see the foresight in my words and bring them to some semblance of truth.

It would be best to enter the Dark Forest with some sort of preparation, a satchel of food, or warm clothing. But I have not the patience to go back. Neither do I have the courage. Besides, I am already standing at the entrance.

The forest glowers at me from beneath its heavily laden boughs, cones and needles dripping down onto the forest floor to make a soft carpet that absorbs any sounds, any screams…I take a step forward and my shoes bury themselves in the thick layer of green. Something smells sickly sweet, as though the trees and underbrush are rotting from the inside out. Quickly I spot the path that I have traveled with my Mother. I hurry to it.

Father must be in here somewhere; yet he has had the full night to travel, and I have only been inside the boundaries of trees for several minutes. Yet I have been told that I have a keen eye for tracking and would have made a wonderful hunter if not for the fact that I am a girl – a woman, maybe – and loathe killing anything. Plants I am fine with. They do not feel. My younger brother made a kill last month and had me skin the rabbit for him. I nearly retched as I touched its still-warm fur. Though I have no fear of creatures and creepy-crawlies, I am not capable of such indifference. Meat is well enough if I am not the one killing and cooking it. In that sense I am different than some of the sworn meat-scorners in my village.

Each step I take may draw me closer to Father, and I know that it draws me farther and farther away from my home and my family.

But secretly, I cannot help but hope –- that it brings me closer to _him_.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part VIII**

It is past high noon. I have spent the entire morning searching for my father. I have found no trace of him.

It is as if he has simply disappeared into the air, become part of the wind and blown away; drifted onwards like a leaf fallen into the river. I do not even know that he is in this forest; yet the longer I dwell on the question, the more the answer seems clear. I would almost suspect that the forest-dwellers have taken him, except for the fact that the forest is so incredibly horrid this afternoon.

It is dark; darker than I have ever seen it before. I know that anyone must think 'dark' is an understatement – after all, it is the Dark Forest. But I cannot explain this feeling. It is an air of morbidity that clings to every branch, clings to every limb – tree limbs and my limbs alike. I feel tired, as though it would be best for me to lie down and nestle in the leaves. Each time I scan the forest for Father, I see shadows flickering at the edge of the vision. I am afraid, terribly so; I am afraid that there is something else in the forest with me.

I wonder if this shadowy darkness I feel is fear. It is not the sort of fear I have ever felt or heard of before; not the wild-eyed, dry-throat, sweating hands fear, and not the clogging, freezing control. It is something that lurks, and makes one feel that whatever is coming is inevitable. I have already forgotten my purpose in this forest several times.

My Father must be found, gods allow it! If you do not allow it, I will find him anyhow. No obstacles must stand in my way. The greatest obstacle, I believe, is the one that follows me along with the darkness in this forest: my hope that I will see the one I saw before, again.

I wish to see the light reflect off his golden hair again, though there is scarce light in the forest today. I wish to see his eyes – no one would believe how much time I have spent wondering about the colour of his eyes. Are they green, or are they blue? What hues do they have? I am terrified of my expectations – terrified that they might come true.

Wait; there is something – I caught sight of something, off in the underbrush. I do not want to look, but I must.

I turn slowly to my right, in the direction of the slight flicker in my vision. I hope that it is not a feral beast. Something is shining, over there in the darkness…I take a step towards it, and it glints red. I swallow a scream and peer closer.

That is when it growls.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part IX**

I leave a trail of blood as I run. The skin of my hands is shredded from pushing aside sharp, barbed branches, and my face is covered in stinging scratches. I cannot stop. I cannot scream.

Each breath I take is laboured, stabbing into my side as though I were playing a game of swords. I can no longer feel my feet, pounding into the ground and underbrush; they have gone numb, they have fallen away, they have become invisible. I care not.

It pants and snarls behind me. I would be sick at its foul stench except that I cannot stop. I imagine its wild lashing tail ripping across my face; my hair itself whips across my face. I am nearly ready to tear it out. I cannot see. Branches, hair, fear.

Fear that has clogged my heart and will stop its beating in a veritable moment…

My clothes must be torn. Gods, my dress must be torn! I laugh! I laugh, I laugh. Oh, Mother, if you could see me now…my dress must be torn…

I cannot go much further. I must go much further.

There is no shelter, no place to hide.

Only this unceasing, relentless chase – this flight through the forest in search of something that may not even exist.

Oh, for a ray of sunshine! Block away those red eyes that fix themselves on my broken back…

I am slowing down.

I have run for hours, it seems, hours upon days and weeks upon months. There is no hope for Father if he has met my fate.

The forest gets darker with each passing moment. I think it is night. I have lost my sense of direction. I am disoriented. All I know, all I feel, is the steady rhythm of my heart as it seeks to burst out of my chest and the wild, frenzied screaming of the beast on my heels. I do not want to die…but I have already left this body. I see it, running through the forest, scrambling through bushes, struggling through thickets. What girl is this, who screams not as the wicked thorns tear into her flesh and cling to her scrappy garment? Whose eyes, in this darkness, reflect an empty, feral coldness in their blue depths…she is drenched with blood and with sweat and yet she runs as one who is no longer of the ground but of the wind…

Oh, gods, it has me!

One final scream, though how it issues forth from my mouth I do not know, and that heavy weight upon my spine – I shall die, pressed into the earth, die of suffocation while my body is ripped apart, my mouth full of dirt and dust and worms and rotting matter…a branch snaps back by my ear, missing it by a hair; I hear the whistle and the rush of air. So it is not my scream; something hot, something burning drips onto my shoulder; it goes through the cloth and through my skin…

Then the beast's weight presses more heavily against me, and I am buried beneath it.

I struggle, and then I give up. Gods, you know I have struggled enough! What hope is there! Death is smiling at me now, gay and bright and cheerful and fulfilling to this child who has run through a night-lit forest. Death beneath the stars. Even romantic.

As romantic as the slender, slightly luminescent hand that is reaching down to me.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part X**

He pushes the beast away from me, almost effortlessly, and extends his hand further. I lift my arm, barely, from the ground, and with some last surge of strength I meet his fingers. I have never touched anything like it in all my life. It feels like a normal hand, and yet not – it feels good, it feels light. Brilliant in this darkness. And then I look up, raising my face from the dirt and weeds, and see him staring down at me.

His hair is less golden than white, the gold strands woven in between the snow of the others. But it is bright, incredibly so; I can hardly keep my eyes on it. The features of his face are fine, strong; he is more beautiful than I had even hoped to imagine. I drop back down into the dirt; it is too much of an effort to hold my head up. He holds my hand more firmly.

He says something to me, in a sweet, lilting tongue. I do not understand him. He must speak a different language than us; that is logical, and makes sense, even to me in this state. I feel so vastly inferior to this being. He tries to speak again. This time, the words come out somewhat different, less comforting – and foreign sounding.

"You – are injured, lady?"

I cannot trace the accent issuing forth from his lips, but I savour it all the same. "I'm very well," I whisper into the ground. I tip my head to one side, glancing at him out of the very corner of my eye, and he seems to frown.

"Come, lady," he says.

"I am well," I whisper again, and his grip on my hand tightens. He pulls me to my feet, and I feel the slightest trace of pain in my back. A wet, hot pain. I flinch, late. He stares at me, and I am sure that I can read concern in his eyes. He says something in his own language, quickly and fiercely, and I recoil in fear. But his eyes are no longer focused on mine; instead, they gaze intensely at something behind me. I try to turn around, and suddenly I find that he has caught hold of me. Have I fallen, oh ye blissful gods? I want only to close my eyes and pass forth into your realm at this moment, when pain and tears and anger and fears do not wrack my soul with their grievances.

"I will take you to a safe place," he says quietly. His words blend into a series, a string of sounds that comfort me. They wind me in their swaying robes; their gentle hands wash away the blood and ease the biting pain in my back; they suffuse me with their strength and give me some unnamable peace. Hunger and weakness are non-existent, and I settle into the silken comfort of white sheets that wrap themselves around me.

--

_Author's Note: Again, thank you for the reviews, everyone! I'm so glad that you're enjoying this story. Thank you especially for the constructive criticism. I'll definitely be keeping your comments in mind. _


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part XI**

There is movement at the edge of my vision; a soft blur that somehow sweeps across from my left side to my right. I try to follow it, but cannot, for my eyes seem…closed. And yet they ache so; they ache so terribly – it is my head that is burning from a fire, or is it but the memory of that fire?

Such pain in my back, a stabbing wound, a stake that drives itself in deeper each time I seek to know what is wrong; and then the weariness that seeps through my bones and settles in my limbs until I feel that I will drown in a sea of white bedsheets.

I breathe in, slowly, letting the breath float down into my stomach, or somewhere like that, and then I exhale, parting my lips ever so slightly. The air that issues forth from my mouth feels cool and refreshing, and I wish that I were blowing it back on myself, so that I would not feel the tiny tongues of flame rising all over my body and dripping into sweat. I moan, softly, and the letting-go of sound relieves some of my tension. Amazing, that a sound can give one relief from pain. And so I hum, deep in my throat, just a long, tuneless note – a note that one hums as one awakes from a very deep sleep, as one absorbs the warmth from the bed and gently presses down into that source of heat for one more tide of relaxation before sleep ebbs away.

I want to open my eyes, and I do not. If I open my eyes I will have to face something new – perhaps a new dawn, perhaps a new day, a face, a place, a race to run until I can sleep again. Still, I feel different, as if the gods have given me their hands and carried me into another realm – at least for a little while.

I swallow thickly, stickily, and try to coat my mouth with some saliva. I am thirsty for pure water, fresh from the spring at the edge of the village. I remember the spring before the village grew; when it was more than a mere trickling brook. Clean in the winter, and rushing. Sweet in springtime, with the faintest taste of honeysuckle and rosebuds. Sweet until the late spring rains, when it became muddy and dark with overflow, and coated with washed away leaves and branches. Then, for a little while in the summer, crisp, and clean as the most delicately and lovingly made juice. My mother makes juice for us in summer, and stores it in a small hollow that I discovered under the spring. It is good water until the high heat of summer, when the younger children who are not aiding their mothers and fathers in some manner of work steal away to play in the refreshing water. They kick up the bilge and dirt on the spring-bed beneath, and the spring becomes clouded and foggy. I do not go there in autumn, when the water has nearly dried up. Mother told me that we must let it replenish itself – she told me when I was much younger, but I still believe it to be true. I have not been very many times this summer. Mayhap I will go when I return home…

Return home…gods, aid me on this. Why must I return? Have I set out on a quest? Here I lie in my bed, pained…pained for what reason? I do not seem to recall…anything – although I see him, painted behind my closed eyelids like an icon of beauty, like a private, private secret.

I must return _home_. I must _return_ home. Then I am not in my bed, and I have a need to be somewhere else.

What I must do right now is open my eyes. I feel prepared, although my head-pain is not lessened, and though the fire under my skin burns even more brightly. The blur shifts across my vision again, like a fine white light filtered through a murky bluish shadow. Blue is the colour I see when my eyes are closed in the early evening, after twilight has passed and the sun has disappeared beneath the Dark Forest. So it must be evening. I should be able to tell by the feel of the air on my skin, but it seems that I am covered in a thin layer of sweat, and beneath the chill of that, the heat of my own skin rages against me. Gods, let it go away! Make it go away!

I am not one who bears pain or illness with no complaint; I feel both as much as any one else. Yet I keep forgetting about this pain. It drifts in and out of my mind without any invitation, without any elegance, with…my thanks. I am grateful that it does not always plague me, even in this short time.

I will open my eyes.

I breathe in again, a hugely deep breath, as though I am going to leap into the Six-Mile Lake from the short cliff that stoops out of the water. My brothers beg me to take them there each summer. I wonder whom they will ask now, now that I am – no longer at home?

My eyelashes cling to my cheeks for a moment, and then my eyelids slide upwards. Everything is blurry, everything is white, almost blindingly so. I squint, and then things come into focus. Everything is still fuzzy about the edges – or perhaps it is meant to be that way. I do not know what everything is.

A chair? standing near to my bed; a curtain? twining about my bedpost, that whips in the wind from the wide open, glassless window on my right side. I wonder if it is the source of the whiteness that has been flitting across my vision. But the gauzy, feathery looking material does not billow far enough. And then I hear something, from somewhere else…footsteps, and then soft voices in that same lilting accent…

That same lilting accent. I close my eyes again, as if this has been too much, and I feel the tide submerse me in a terrible, silent peace.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part XII**

It is well past high noon, for I feel the heat of the sun bursting through my window. I believe that he has taken me to some place in the forest – the Dark Forest. Melin would never believe that the forest is this beautiful! Through my window I can see the most lovely of trees and flowers; blossoms the size of my fist, their petals softly curling towards the sunlight, red and gold and pink beneath the shady trees. It looks almost like a garden – perhaps it is a garden – except that I have never seen a garden that looked like it belonged so much in a forest in all my life.

He has not returned yet; however, I do not doubt that I have been brought to the safe place he promised me when he rescued me. The boar's gash in my back – for that is what I now know it to be – has been tended kindly and gently by a serving woman who entered a little while ago, robed in the same white of my bedsheets and curtains. I am beginning to wonder if, apart from the garden, there are any other colours in this serene place. The birdsong only just relieves it from being too quiet.

I know that I am not in the company of others of my kind – of other human beings. The legends have taught me this much; and my recent experience shows me that legends can sometimes be true. My rescuer – my golden-crowned prince – has a beauty too unearthly, too radiant for a mere man; and even the woman who tended my wound was not quite…right. I could not really see her face, try as I might; when I stared at her from the corner of my eyes, I caught off-hand glimpses of something beautiful, but directly, I saw nothing but vague features masked by a film of light. Perhaps it is best that I do not see what my caretaker looks like – I suspect, if she looks anything like the other of her kind whom I have seen, that I would feel quite inferior compared to her.

I think that I should feel much more worried and concerned that I do right now. I am lying wounded in a strange bed, in a strange place – well within the boundaries of the Dark Forest, of which village tales warn danger and darkness. I have met strange, non-human creatures; and I fear for my family. Especially my father – no one knew where he was when I left – or was taken by the Forest, I suppose. I am so terribly afraid that he could have been hurt, even gored by the same boar that attacked me…Gods! Protect him. I care for my father deeply, and any hurt to him might tear me apart.

I am growing quite tired of lying in bed now. When I last fell asleep, I must have tossed and turned a great deal, for the bed linen is strewn halfway across the floor. It is a beautifully tiled floor, and –

Someone is coming, and it does not sound like my nurse. The voice is deeper, richer – I am beginning to tremble. I fear it might be him. Does he know what I have thought of him? That I have watched him, secretly and silently? He nears my room, his footsteps soft yet steady, partners to a determined stride. I reach up to my tangled hair in vain, and struggle to pull my fingers through the twisted knots. I hear his voice again – a murmur to someone at the door, and I fling my hands down and pull the bedcovers up to my chin.

Then he is here, standing before me – smiling or frowning, I cannot tell which, and he opens his mouth to speak…I do not hear what he says.

His eyes are blue.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part XIII**

My heart is in my mouth. He has spoken to me, in that lilting accent – he told me that I am safe, as I already knew that I was. He told me that I will recover well from my wound – so Mother will not have to tend me when I return home. I hate to think of returning home! I have never felt so light in all my life. I feel that I could walk on water if I tried.

He told me that he had not seen someone of my kind for many a long year; that the language had changed so that it was hard for us to understand each other unless we tried. He told me, while he stared into my eyes, that he wanted to help me, and that I was very brave; and that there had been a great evil in the forest. The boar? I asked him, and he told me that it was. He said that that evil had diminished now, but shadows still roamed beneath the trees and off the familiar path. Then he smiled at me, and I felt the most curious sensation. It was as if the very tips of my fingers were tingling, responding to some atmosphere that I could neither hear nor see. In my stomach I felt a fluttering, like that of butterflies when I have held them loosely in my palm. He said, gently, that this was not the time for such deep matters, and that would I join him, tomorrow, to break my fast? I agreed most heartily, and he seemed amused.

I am not sure if amused is what I would have him be with me. My nurse, the lady who entered the room with me, told me in a quiet murmur as she changed my dressings that I was not to eat for the remainder of this day. No matter how hungry I was, she instructed me. The dressings dictate that I rest and not ingest anything for the remainder of the day. I do not care – I feel as though I have eaten my fill, and I never want to partake of any mortal food again.

Gods! Is he one of you? Is my beloved, the beautiful, the handsome, the kind one of you? He cannot be a man who lives among my people; if he was, he would be a prince beyond any reckoning. Each time I look at him he is more beautiful to me; I would treasure even just a painting of him, though it sorrows me that nothing can capture that radiance in an everlasting form. He lights the room when he enters, and when he leaves, he trails a gentle peacefulness that calms me. I am ready to rest now – though he is such a beacon of peace, even speaking with him for that short while was a terrible ordeal. I think perhaps that it would only be an ordeal for me – my heart beats faster as I think this.

I do wonder what Melin would say about my situation. She alone is the one person in my circle of friends and family who has been – or is in – love with the Duke of Marinty. I am so curious to know if she felt like this also.

As of now, I will settle down to await my breakfast with him tomorrow – I am nervous, frightened, and yet I want to see him more than anything else in the world. All else is but a bad memory now, except for my father – and perhaps the answers to my questions will lie with the one whom I believe I love.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part XIV**

I have had strange dreams this night. A nightingale sings softly to itself somewhere nearby, and a gentle, fever-cooling breeze is blowing through my window. It is not too cool, or too strong – it is quite perfect. Besides my dreams, that also strikes me as strange. This place, beautiful as it is, seems so controlled – as if its inhabitants had power over all aspects of nature.

I dreamt of Mother speaking to me, but in my dream, I was still a child. Young, and infinitely innocent. She used to tell stories to Melin and me, before our brothers were born. The stories were a way of readying us for sleep, she said. She has always had a lovely speaking voice, and, more often than not, Melin and I fell asleep before she had finished telling her stories. When I think of the subjects of those stories, though, I begin to think that Mother had yet another purpose for telling them. They were hardly cheerful tales. Mostly, they were about the Dark Forest and its even darker properties.

Mother's favourite tale was about a princess who lived in the forest. The princess was the daughter of a great and powerful King, who was deeply feared by all of his subjects. When she was still a girl, there was a terrible war, and many died. Soon after the war ended, a young, orphaned man showed up at the King's palace, seeking refuge. The man showed every sign of being exceedingly poor, and was very uneducated in every manner of the word, but everyone supposed this to be the result of living during a time of war. The King, against his better judgment, took the man in, but forbid his daughter to speak to or see the man for he knew well the fickleness of woman – his own wife, the princess' mother, had once set off on a journey to visit her family in another kingdom and had never returned to him.

Of course, as was bound to happen, the princess and the young man met; and they fell in love. Each pledged to the other that they would love no one else for the remainder of their lives; they would be true to each other, even if one should fade to just a memory.

The King's advisors soon noticed that the princess was spending more time than usual going for walks alone in the palace gardens, and that the young man was spending a great deal of time weeding the flowerbeds. When the King heard about his daughter's romance, he was greatly angered. After punishing the princess by commanding her to stay in her own quarters and not walk the garden until he told her she could do so, the King summoned the young man to him.

Now, by this time, the young man had learned a great deal. He had learned how to speak the royal language of the Kingdom, and how to shoot a bow straight and strong; he had become an excellent horseman, and his mastery over poetry and song was an amazement to the ear. Everyone in the palace, excepting the King, loved him dearly, and all were afeared of what the King would say to him.

The King told the young man that there was no longer any place in the palace for him, and he ordered him to leave at once, with naught but the cloak on his back. The young man said not a word, but obeyed his order and departed the palace. When the King finally released the princess from her confinement, she immediately rushed to the garden to meet her lover; not finding him, she confronted her father and learned that the young man had already left to become a soldier in a far-off land.

The princess then confined herself to her rooms, and she cried for many-a-day. Not one of her maids could convince her to eat, nor to drink, though they tempted her with many tasty delicacies. She would not sing, and she would not sew, and neither would she take one step outside of her quarters. She refused to have any flowers from the garden brought in to lighten her bedside, and commanded that her windows and curtains be kept shut at all times. In this way, the princess condemned herself to a slow death.

When her father the King realized that his daughter was dying, he immediately felt remorse, but not so strongly that he would fetch the young man back. Indeed, he did not know where his daughter's lover had gone. What he had told her was true: the young man had joined an army in a land of horse-men, faraway, and with his quick mind and skills, was steadily rising in status.

About this time, the King and his advisors received word of a great warrior in a distant, but allied land, and this warrior, they heard, wished to wage war on a great evil. There truly was such an evil, and its extent was such that it had already penetrated the edges of the King's forest kingdom. There was but one problem: the great warrior needed a sword, and he asked the King for a legendary, much-fabled sword which hung in the palace treasury. This sword was a weapon famed for its biting edge, and its ability to weld itself to the wielder during battle; it was a sword that had been passed down through the generations of the King's family, and it was a weapon that no evil could face and defeat.

The King agreed to send the sword to the warrior, and further, he took it upon himself to deliver the sword. Many said that he left the palace because he could not bear to see his daughter die because of his own actions. The King's party traveled many days and many nights, through snow and through fire, and at long last, they reached the land where the warrior was waiting for them. The warrior had gathered many men and other good creatures about him, and was camped on a great plain. In the dark of the night, the King was led to the warrior's tent, the sword in hand. Even he, ruler of a powerful kingdom and beloved by most of his people, was afraid to enter the tent – some strange fear that he could not identify.

Lo and behold, when he passed into the tent, he came face to face with no other than the young man who had once loved his daughter.

Yet the man was young no longer, and no longer did he seem just a man. He radiated such a sense of power and goodness that the King nearly fled, terrified at what he had once banished. The man towered over the King, but his eyes were kind, and he said to the King, "You have brought me what I wished. I thank you."

"Sire!" gasped the King, falling to his knees and holding the sword above his head. "I give you the Flame." And then the King knew what he must say, and say it he did, still holding the sword. "My daughter is dying for love of you, my Lord, and I ask you – nay, I beg you return to my kingdom and my daughter. Her heart is yours, of one accord."

The man smiled, a world-weary smile, and said to the King, "Long have I traveled this earth, and much have I seen – I have gazed with an eagle's sharp eyes, I have hunted and tracked with the forest runners, I have spoken with the servants, I have seen the last tree dying. Yet this was never enough. Now, as I prepare to ride into battle, the one thing that I have longed for is given to me, and I cannot accept."

The King began to weep when he heard this, for he knew that his daughter would soon die. But the man had one thing more to say.

"If we rid the world of this evil – and you will know if we do, for mountains will burst into flame and cities will crumble – then I say to you, return to your daughter and tell her that my heart is hers, of one accord. If still she loves me – and I doubt it not, for the Princess never breaks her promises – then she must come to the new kingdom and bring with the banner of the new reign. You and I both know of what I speak. Once it flies, unfurled, I will marry her before all peoples."

The King agreed to this, and the man said no more to him. The King was ushered out of the tent, and he set off homewards, to tell his daughter of her lover's conditions. He had no doubt that the man would defeat whatever evil came before him.

At long last, after fearsome and terrible fighting, mountains did indeed become fiery furnaces and long-standing fortresses fell to the ground. The man fought alongside his soldiers, wielding the great sword, until the greatest evils were smothered and defeated. He returned to his citadel with those who survived, and there he waited.

Many days later, messengers brought word of a party on the road. They came quickly, on horseback, bearing many black pennants. The man went out to the road to meet them.

At once, among the black pennants, another flag was unfurled, and this one was a brilliant white, emblazoned with the crest of a many-branched tree. The princess rode towards her lover, and almost before she had dismounted he embraced her. They were married at once.

The man became the first Great King, and she his Queen, and their children were remarkably long-lifed and wise, like their father and mother. Under his reign, no evils or wars plagued the earth, and the peace was good and beautiful. As for the King of the Dark Forest, he retreated into secrecy and silence, and was never heard from again.

I think I have told the story pretty well. This is the way Mother used to tell it to me, and I have heard it so many times that the words stick like sap-stained leaves in my mind. She told it because she thought it was beautiful, and because, as she confided to Melin, who later told me, she thought the princess was an admirable character. I have always found it strange that Mother should think the story was about the princess, when it is so obviously about the King.

I do not know if I believe her when she tells me that this was, indeed, the true history of our Dark Forest. It seems too impossible to believe. A fairy-story, invented for children. Yet is the Dark Forest itself not a fairy-story invented for adults? The townsfolk tell each other rumours of the shadowy darkness that lies within the forest's borders; that there are great, deep secrets that lurk and linger beneath the trees, mingling with monsters and evils too powerful to behold. The wood-cutters venture into the forest only a little ways, and even then they prefer to cut their wood from groves and woods on the other side of the town, and as for herb-gatherers like my mother, sister and me, we tend to stay towards the well-trod path.

It seems to me that the tales told of the Dark Forest have a grain of truth in them – but someone has warped and distorted that truth. How could a place as beautiful as this one, this retreat of gentle warmth and beauty, be a harbringer of destruction and shadow?

The sun is rising. The sky sheds light into my room, feather-soft motes drifting through my window. It is but a few hours until I speak with my rescuer, my saviour – my beloved.

I shall have to think of what to say.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it changes from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part XV**

My nurse came this morning, long after I had awoken – for I woke early in the night and stayed awake until well after the sun had risen – and she brought me good tidings and fresh raiment. First she told me that my wounds were nearly healed. I wonder which wounds she meant? Those that plague my body, or those which fester in my mind? The garments she laid out for me were far more costly than any I have seen before. Melin would be amazed; truly, gods, she would be. I doubt that even Sir de Marinty can provide her with gowns of such beauty.

I am loathe to even touch them, for fear that I might somehow spoil their purity; for fear that my fingers will leave blemishes wherever they fall. There is a long, soft green gown, as dark as the leaves of mistletoe in winter, and threaded through with a glittering golden thread. It is soft to the touch, so light and somehow fluid. I wish very much to wear it. But there is another gown, equally as beautiful: this one is a pale, gentle blue, and it suits my mind increasingly as I gaze at it.

Alas! What have I come to, that my great dilemma is to choose between two gowns? Gods, I should prefer to think that my journey through the forest indicated some greater depth of mind than this.

I will wear the blue gown. I pick it up, carefully, lest I tear the material. It is so fine – much finer than human hands could have woven – and embroidered all over with tiny, starlight violets. I press the material to my face, smothering a smile. I am reminded of my failed attempts at embroidery. Quickly, I undress and slip into my gown. There is no looking glass in my room; fairly, I have not seen a looking glass in some time, and so this is no great nuisance to me. I attempt to rake my fingers through my hair, but it is such a tangled web of knots and snarls that I doubt even the stoutest brush could make some sense of it.

I am pacing in my room. It is a very open room; the window makes it so. I am quite interested in seeing what is outside, in the garden. A hidden haven in the centre of the Dark Forest. I wonder if the darkness of the trees can be seen from here?

I do not wish to think of the Dark Forest. As long as I am inside this place, with my rescuer, my heaven-sent saviour, then there is no need for me to dwell on the shadows and nightmares that plague me in the twilight hours. Yet I cannot help but think of that boar…I did not think that it was a boar when it came crashing through the underbrush toward me. It seemed so intent on catching me, on hunting me down and goring me to death. Even in its dying moments, it tried to crush me. No animal is so vicious, so vindictive. What did my saviour say? That there is a darkness in the forest? Surely, even barring its name, there is. I do wish that I knew what he did with the boar – what would one do with such a creature? Eat it? I do not think that I would ever be able to eat an animal that tried to attack me. I would rather it be disposed of far, far away.

Lately, this morning, it is thoughts of my father that have plagued me. I had forgotten him in these past few days – and my guilt at this entirely consumes me. I was so dreadfully worried about him when I set off into the forest, and then at the slightest inconvenience, I promptly forgot my purpose here. I have a small, sneaking suspicion that my hosts made me forgot him while I rested and healed, but that does not make me feel any better about myself.

I am terribly worried about Father. If he was in the forest, he might have been hurt by the same boar that followed me – perhaps he is still in there, somewhere in the trees, wounded and dying…

Why such morbidity! I am standing here before my open, sunny window, dressed in a beautiful gown, and bathed in such sweet garden scents as I have never known, and yet all I can think of is death and destruction. I am to meet with him who I have longed for in a few short minutes, and my heart is inexplicably weary and downcast. Why such morbidity, indeed. Why such sadness in this peace?

I must ask him to find my father. Or at the very least, to aid me in finding Father. I must. I must. I cannot bear to wait a minute longer.

I make my way to the door of my room, and push it open. It is unlatched – there is no latch on my door. My hosts are very trusting. I peer into a long, empty hallway – it stretches many steps on either side of my doorway, tiled with red-brown stone and lined with many more doors and windows. There are large stone vases set at varying intervals along the hallway, between the doors and windows; they are filled with bushy, blooming flowers. Entranced, I step into the hallway towards one to have a better look. The vase nearest me bears a rose bush. Soft buds are hidden behind thornless stems and vividly green leaves; one is opening, unfurling. I can almost see the petals unfolding themselves as I stare at it.

But I must remember my purpose. I glance up and down the hallway – I have no idea where I must go to find him. Though I have heard footsteps when my nurse comes to my room, I do not know from which direction she comes. At random, I turn to my right and walk towards the end of the hallway. It comes quickly; the hall is much shorter than it seemed from the doorway of my room. It abruptly curves around the corner of a wall, and then I find myself in a great, open room…

He looks up and smiles at me.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man. _

**The Dark Forest – Part XVI**

He says nothing; merely looks in my direction and beckons me with his eyes. I step into the room, hesitantly, my eyes fixed on his. I barely know where my feet are going. I shuffle carefully across the floor towards him, towards the long wooden table at which he is sitting and the empty chair across from him…

There is a bowl of fruit in the centre of the table, picturesque and perfect, untouched and elegant. I presume this is where we will eat. I feel like my chest has been bound with horribly tight ropes; I cannot breathe.

At last I am standing in front of him. He stands up, extends his hand. I reach out and take it. Gentle, soft, warm, light, un-human…such a different situation then when he last gave me his hand. He bows his head, and his lips brush against the back of my hand. I shiver, uncontrollably, and he lets go abruptly, glancing at me in concern. I shake my head.

"I'm sorry…" I stammer, "I was surprised…"

"My apologies, lady," he says, the words laced heavily with grace and accent. "I did not mean to startle you."

"You did not startle me," I try to explain, but there is too much of a barrier between us for me to explain any further.

We sit in silence for a moment; several moments. At last, when I find myself gripping the folds of my skirt so tightly that my fingers are turning white, a woman enters the room. To call her a mere woman, though, is hardly enough; she is his equal in every way. I try my best not to gape too long and too obviously. He inclines his head at her, and she smiles in return, dipping a half-curtsey. That is when I see the tray she carries in her arms. It is wide, silver and rectangular, and displays an assortment of delicacies which not even Sir William could imagine at his dinner table. She places the tray before us, delicately, and wafts away through the door, leaving only the scent of meadowgrass after the rain.

I stare at the tray, focusing all of my attention on one intricately engraved cornerpiece. He follows my gaze. "A beautiful piece," he says, softly, and my lips twitch. Not in smile or laughter, but in nervousness. Never before have I found myself so incapable of speaking, so that I am struck dumb in the presence of he whom I would most like to impress. "Come now," he says, "Let us partake of this good meal."

I glance over to him, careful not to meet his eyes, and stare instead at his lips. They do not twitch. They are curved carefully in a well-formed smile that somehow conveys peace, goodwill, and comfort at the same time. Solace in a smile. He is tender to me, gentle, as if I am a wild creature he seeks to calm. A deer, perhaps, frozen in rippled sunlight, caught in the second between coming and fleeing. Do I step closer, or do I…

"You must eat. I imagine you are very hungry." Common words from an uncommon tongue. Seeing, or knowing, that I am not going to move, he serves me, gracefully removing a dish from the tray and placing it before me. "Eat." There is a hint of amusement in the single word. I look at the plate, aghast. There is more food there than I could hope to consume even if I were myself and in my own place.

He takes a dish from the tray, similarly, and sets it before himself. I notice, abstractedly, that there is no wine. We drink only sunlight and fragrance. It is morning, after all. "May the gods bless our feast," he says quietly, head bowed. I watch him close his eyes, and silently offer my own prayer.

And so we dine.


End file.
